


In the Absence of Light

by shemlentrash (Jess_X)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Character Death, Death, Don't Read This, F/M, I'm Going To Hell For Writing This Garbage, I'm Serious, Lyrium Addiction, Misery, Other, Red Lyrium, There is Nothing Happy About This Fic, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_X/pseuds/shemlentrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short-lived happiness in a world without Corypheus is sundered when the backlash from the remaining Red Templars reaches its peak, and the raid on Skyhold leaves them one member short. Now, he waits alone with his twisted mind in a dirty cell, skin crawling with need, eyes glowing red from over-exposure. His memory has dissolved, and he knows not his name nor how or when he got here. But he still remembers her face - and he clings to that last glimmer of his old life, even as  the red crystals grow sharp upon his flesh. Even as he becomes consumed by it - he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Absence of Light

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry. I recommend you turn back, now, before it's too late. This fic is 100% angst, death, and misery. It's trash. I just needed to let out some bad angst, y'know? So it served its purpose, even if it's a total mess and the POV sorta jumps all around. Just in general this is not... remotely... my best writing. But I'm really tired of staring at it and I don't feel like editing anymore, so whatever. If you have heeded my warnings and decided to read on anyway, then thank you, and enjoy (I guess)!

The night was heavy. The stale prison air burned in his throat, though he knew it was cold. Everything was sharp. It hurt to see. Things were in such focus, it overwhelmed his senses and made him wish he could escape his own head.

He could not remember when this had begun. What he could recall most easily about his old life was the sense of purpose he carried with him – the need to do right, the desire to help, and – a face? Yes: soft hair, dark eyes… and a smile to move mountains.

The word “Inquisitor” had been remembered long after he had forgotten his own name. Her face kept him alive each day despite his broken body and mind. How long had it been? A year? More than that? He did not know. He knew there had been a struggle. He knew he had fought beyond all his strength, fought until he could not stand and they took him away, laughing. He could remember thinking of her in that last moment that he’d been conscious and free of lyrium. Her image had swum behind his eyelids before the nothingness enveloped. He wished it could be that vivid again.

The other Templars had kept him here and force-fed him for days, torturing him, too, for information that he never gave. The days turned into weeks. Time stretched far and long since then, and the past was but a shadow now to him – a nearly forgotten dream of a blonde man screaming alone in the dark, crying for… someone. Meaningless prayers in empty corners. But that was then. Now, all that existed was the lyrium, and this cage.

He was drooling and his skin was crawling – veins aching, heart churning, blood on fire as it rushed in his ears.

“More,” he said quietly, his voice tremulous and cracking, but no one heard him. “I need more!” he roared, leaping to his feet and rattling the bars of his cage. The stuff was growing out of the walls and a crystal had begun to form on the back of his hand, but it was not enough. What he needed was the instantly gratifying rush of power, the heightened senses, hot, passionate, primed for violence – what could only come from ingesting the red substance. It controlled him.

Footsteps could be heard down the dark, damp corridor. Pressing himself flat against the bars, he shook them desperately. “Please!” he yelled out to his captors. “Please.”

A beam of light stretched across the floor, cutting a line through the shadows of his prison as it widened. The heavy door was creaking open, and there was the silhouette of a group of people. None of the shapes were familiar to him. Where were the Templars?

Then a voice – heavenly and hopeful – echoed strangely in the hollow, rusting prison. “Cullen!”

Was that his name? His veins were screaming. He barely cared. “I need more,” was all he could say, staring down at his shaking, hands as the splash of hurried footsteps indicated the group’s quick approach.

The shrill, shocked way the same voice said “Cullen” again made him look up, and – _that face!_

“You,” he said, and he was suddenly very aware of the tinny feedback of his voice that was symptomatic of red lyrium poisoning. “It’s… you.” She looked soft: pliable, gentle, delicate. He could crush her. And she was so beautiful, he wanted to –

“I’m here,” she choked, reaching through the bars to touch him. At this, he backed away hurriedly.

His red eyes widened in horror as he curled his lip at her, looking furious. “But you are not real,” he hissed. “You can’t be.”

This woman – was it… Inquisitor? Yes, that was it. That title still lingered in the back of his mind somewhere.  She covered her mouth with her hands, looking as though she was going to cry. “Cullen, I…”

One of the figures was very short. A dwarf? He spoke. “I hate to be the one to say it,” he said, “but Curly… doesn’t look so good.”

“The red lyrium,” said another woman. She had a darkness about her features, and very short hair. A scar across her cheek – so familiar. “He is already becoming a part of it. Look at his hands.” He instinctively shielded his hands from view as they spoke about him. “Maker, I’m so sorry, Cullen.”

A white-blonde boy who had to still be in his teens made a noise of pain. All turned to look at him. His eyes were closed, and he was covering his ears. “Screaming veins. Broken bones never healed and knives on every inch of me. Scalding liquids down my throat, crack- crack- cracking as I screamed for you in the empty nights. Pain unattended, blood in every corner and sliding past my tongue. Then everything is fire and power and need - the need so strong it ate right through my memories. There is no more self. What was my name? No more you. No more us. No more hope.”

His heart was thumping agonizingly against his chest. What was this child talking about? How did he…?

“He is not Cullen anymore, Inquisitor. But – ”

“Inquisitor,” he repeated the boy’s word, and for a moment he felt like he was tasting something new. How long had it been since the word had crossed his lips? It was strange to say a word that brought comfort, without screaming in pain.

The Inquisitor curled her small hands around the bars of his cell, watching him carefully. There were tears cutting paths through the dirt and blood on her cheeks. “Are you certain, Cole? Look at him. He knows who I am.”

The boy named Cole shook his head. “Faces,” he whispered. “Feelings. A glimmer? A glow, soft and wanting, a touch that used to burn but now runs cold under the flaming need rampant in his blood, whispering to him, singing…”

The Inquisitor drew in an unsteady breath. “Cullen,” she said again, and she sounded unrecognizable. He did not understand why.

He inched forward again on stiff knees. They were only a few inches apart, and he watched another tear trickle down her face. “You,” he said softly. “I remember you.”

“Yes, my love,” she said desperately, excitement building in her tone. “It’s me! Please, Cullen. Please recognize me.”

“You… are important,” he said, straining to remember. All he could muster was that sense of purpose, that feeling of hope and light and relief, all because… His mouth fell open. It was all because she had trusted him. Because she had wanted a better life for him. Because she had saved him from himself.

He felt something strange in his heart, like an echo of an emotion he could not summon any longer. “I loved you,” he said, working to keep this thought in his mind, to keep it louder than the voices in his mind still screaming for the lyrium.

She let out a single broken sob. Her lip was quivering. “Yes,” she nodded.

“I do not understand,” said the other woman angrily, “why they did this to him. Why not simply kill him? It would have been faster, would not have wasted their resources, and would certainly have been kinder.”

“It was for this,” Cole said solemnly. He gestured around to them. “This was a present, neatly packaged, ribbon and all – but she killed them before they could watch her open her gift. What a disappointment.”

The Inquisitor’s face fell slack. She looked winded. “This…” She searched Cullen’s blank and battered face. “This was all… for me? They destroyed Cullen… to make me suffer?”

The dark haired woman gave a great sigh. “I am not surprised. It was never a secret that the two of you are married. You are a great power in Thedas now, and it made him a target. You have killed countless red Templars over the years, and have stopped so much red lyrium from surfacing, it is no wonder…”

“I only wish we could have stopped it all a lot sooner,” the dwarf muttered, looking stricken. “None of this…” He swallowed. “None of this should have happened. I don’t know how bits of it managed to get by us again, but… this...” The man gave a great sigh. “For once, I have no words.”

Cullen’s eyes were hungry, and he was drooling. He knew he must look mad. The Inquisitor did not budge, but continued to gaze up at him sadly. He could still see her for what she was, for what she had meant to him, but it was fading. His blood sang, and he was shaking. “Need,” he growled. “More.”

“Cullen. Please…”

“I NEED MORE!” he shouted, and she flinched.

The dwarf put a hand on her arm. “Hey,” he said calmly. “It isn’t him anymore.”

“He is going to die,” said the other woman. “No matter what happens… this is killing him.”

“Yeah,” the dwarf sighed, shrugging lamely. “If we were to try and cut him off, at this point he would absolutely die. If we fed his addiction to keep his pain at bay… he would still die, slowly and disturbingly. It’s eating him alive from the inside out. That’s what red lyrium does. And it’s already winning.” Something about the dwarf’s grieving tone made him feel as though an iron fist had clamped around his heart. These... these were his friends! Yes! He clung to this realization as though it held the key to his salvation. He did not know their names any longer, but he knew they were his friends, and even through the haze of addiction he could sense how disparaging it was for all of them that the lyrium had overpowered his once great love for them.

Shaking his head, he backed away, fingers twisting in his once-perfect curls. “Can’t,” he groaned, trying to hold on to this feeling, grappling with his mind, taking all his energy.

Cole drew in a deep breath and spoke for him it seemed. “I can’t live like this. I can’t live not knowing you. I knew your face all along – it kept me alive… but here you are, and I still don’t know you.” Cole's voice was high-pitched and strained, as though it hurt him to speak. “I cannot live this way. I need to not live this way. “ He covered his face.

“But…” The Inquisitor sunk to her knees, a hand over her mouth. She was shaking. The dwarf had a hand on her shoulder, and he was gripping it tightly as though to ground her. After a few long moments, she released her grasp over her face and spoke, tremulously. “We… have a child, Cullen,” she croaked up at her damaged lover. “A daughter.” She swallowed hard, and Cullen felt his face reacting against his will, twisting into an expression of disbelief and horror. The memory was flooding back to him all too quickly, and it hurt.

“No,” he moaned, knocking his fists against his head, tugging at his hair. “No, no, no…!”

 _Soft face, smiling, hands on her stomach, rush of joy. A kiss. Pleasure like he’d never known and would never know again. Hope. A future – so exciting. Sighs of ecstasy under the promise of forever. A child. A family. What would it be?_ He had hoped for a daughter, but he’d been taken only two months later. He never knew.

 _A daughter_.

“She is really beautiful, Curly,” said the dwarf. He sounded uncharacteristically mournful. “I wish you’d been there when she…”

Cole whimpered slightly. “Stop! Too much! It’s too much, it’s too hard.” Then, speaking very clearly, in a voice more like his own, he added, “We can’t leave him like this.” The hush that fell between them all made the air feel thick. It rang in Cullen’s ears. Everyone was staring at him, sympathetic grief radiating off each of them like a beacon.

“Need,” he said. He felt so weak. “More. P- please.” He could feel the rage growing in him again, quickly dissolving his moment of clarity. He scraped his fingernails down the length of his face. “Please… No!” He shook his head wildly. “No… In…quisitor, this…” His sense was ebbing. He needed to speak quickly. “This… isn’t right. Please!” And with a desperate cry he rattled the bars of the cage again. “ _Kill me_.”

The Inquisitor shook her head, looking horrified. “I… can’t…”

“I think it is the right thing to do,” said the dwarf quietly. “I’m… sorry.”

“No,” she murmured into her hands. “How… how can this be real? This cannot be happening. No.”

The taller woman took her by the arm and lifted her, stumbling. “Look at him, Inquisitor,” she said gruffly. “He is not the man you married. He is not the father of your daughter. He is not the Commander of armies anymore. Is he? This, Inquisitor, is a monster. Cullen is dead already.”

The Inquisitor was very pale. Her lips – soft lips, delicious lips, he remembered – were parted in a silent plea for the Maker’s guidance and mercy. But he knew that the Maker had no mercy for them. The Maker either did not care or did not exist, but whichever the reason, he was not coming. Cullen had lost that faith long ago.

To her, he looked very much the same in many ways, but he was at the same time practically unrecognizable. Strange how that was. His hair was still blonde, and his structure was still similar, but he was gaunt - sullen and dirty, and every vein was glowing a hot, smoking red through his almost translucent pallor. He wore the same undershirt he had been wearing the day he was taken. It was matted, frayed, and torn so that it hung off his shoulders to expose much his bruised chest. There were many new scars that she could see. Some were still gaping, and all were glistening with the effects of the lyrium. One gash on his neck, just under his ear, was actually still bleeding. Had they been torturing him? Why? What was even the _point_?

What tore into her most, however, was the way his glossy eyes looked deadened and pained, his pupils now a dark red. There were deep circles under those once bright eyes – eyes that had taken so much effort to become lively again, back when she’s first met him… eyes that had first lit up only when they had stood on the battlements swelling with emotion and lust… just before their first kiss.

She had to close her eyes and look away. She could not think about that kiss right now. It hurt too much. This… was not the same man. Cassandra was right. Cullen was…

“Kill me!” He growled, and his voice was rising in volume, in the manner of one about to break into a fit. Looking back at him, she took a step away from the bars as he rattled them again, violently. “KILL ME!” he shouted, and there were tears in his red eyes. His booming voice echoed off the dank walls of the underground prison, and it made her wince.

Cassandra sounded very small when she then said, “It… will be kinder. Cullen would not…” She choked a little on her words, and had to pause to swallow back a wave of emotion. “Cullen would not want to live this way, as a slave to the lyrium. It was…”

“His worst nightmare,” the Inquisitor whispered.

Drawing in a painful breath, Cassandra nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

The Inquisitor remembered him waking her up in the middle of the night, thrashing and shouting in terror, convinced – even for moments after she’d shaken him awake – that he was hooked on lyrium still, that he was being tortured back at the circle again, that red lyrium had made him as mad as Meredith had been, or worse: that he had become… this.

With a tremendous roar, Cullen slammed his body against the bars. He was an animal, his expression rabid. She had never seen him like this, and never wanted to. She took several more steps back, heart hammering. Her lover – her husband, and the father of her child – was clawing at his own flesh, screaming into the void with agony. “DO IT!” He bellowed. His eyes were mad with rage and a tangible piercing pain. Then they slipped out of focus. “I need it,” he hissed, more to himself than anything. “I need more. Get me more.”

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said shakily, “but the time is now. He should not continue to suffer this way.” She patted the Inquisitor’s back awkwardly. “If it would be easier, my friend, I can – ”

“No,” she said quickly, taking some deep breaths to strengthen her resolve and calm her nerves. She thought about Cullen – the real Cullen… the way he once was. That man deserved so much more than this. This had to be done… for him. “Varric,” she whispered. “Please open the cell.”

The rogue bowed his head, whipped out his lock pick, and got to work. Cullen watched him warily, his lip curling into a snarl. While Varric worked, the Inquisitor turned to Cassandra again. “May I?” She needed no explanation. The ex-Seeker handed over her blade. Cole was weeping silently. She knew he was vulnerable to this much concentrated pain – knew he couldn’t shut it off or make himself forget anymore. But she could not think on it right now.

Frowning, Varric stepped aside from the gate as it squeaked open, and she moved passed him on numb legs to enter the cell. Cullen was shaking. He had backed himself against a wall, panting and growling like an animal. The raw lyrium was everywhere, so his face shone in the scarlet glow cast over them. His eyes were darting from her to the open cell door, and she knew he was contemplating running.

“You know me,” she reminded him, and her voice felt very distant. “Remember? Look at me, Cullen. Remember what I was to you.”

He locked eyes with her, a tiny part of him screaming for her. He did know her. He knew her face. He knew her importance. He knew… something. But… it was all so far away. Friends, he remembered again. Lovers. Yes. He loved her. He knew that, but it had no meaning for him. He did not understand it. All he knew for certain was pain, and terror, and death. “Yes,” he said stiffly, clinging to the fragmented feeling that still lingered from a lifetime ago. “We…”

She stepped close to him, until they were barely more than a few inches apart. Cullen’s mouth hung open, looking down at her. His expression softened slightly, but mostly he was just in shock. “We loved each other,” she said. “I know you remember that. And I still love you. I will always love you.”

There were more tears on her face. He did not mean to do it, but suddenly his arm was reaching and he was touching her wet cheek with a shaking hand.  The shining red crystals were stark against her pale skin. It was wrong. And then a hand was on his face as well, and he sighed. No one had touched him lovingly in… well, not since he’d been taken. The touch was so soft. It felt like heaven. Hope. Faith. Love. “Love…” He was stunned, and breathless, even as the violent stabbing ache crept through his system.

And then her mouth met his. He did not know what to do. Fear danced wildly in his veins, mingling with the pain and the need, but his heart was leaping, and pieces of an old life were flitting through his memory in quick succession: _that first kiss, and the surprise of it; the day they had first met, on the battlefield; the first time they made love, passion reigning over responsibility as he swept his plans aside to back her onto his desk; their kiss at their wedding, and Cassandra crying bashfully behind a handkerchief as though no one would notice; the day she approached him nervously to tell him that she was with child, cheeks rosy, eyes bright_.

Hungry for a closeness he had not felt in so long, desperate to fill a loneliness he had not noticed in the shadow of need for lyrium, his tongue darted out to taste her with a sigh. She accepted it, allowing him to kiss her greedily. Allowing him this moment. Then, she held her breath with anticipation during a momentary pause, and –

She let out a sharp sob against his mouth, and a searing, blinding pain ripped through his abdomen. He gasped. For a second, he was lost in surprise, but as she yanked the blade out of him with a nasty crunching sound, the pain wiped the shock away. Boiling agony tugged on every nerve as the blood began to spill. He collapsed into her. Understanding gripped him as his weight fell, and he was grateful. She caught him deftly, lowering him to his knees with care. Hugging him tightly, she sobbed against his shoulder and breathed in his scent with a desperation he recognized.

Cullen was growing weak quickly. His head was spinning. He knew he was losing a lot of blood very fast, but everything in him was prepared for this. This was right. He had been wrong for such a long time, but she saved him. Again. She always saved him. He knew her. Yes. He did know her. How could he have forgotten? “Inquisitor,” he gasped. “I… ”

“Shh.” She was crying noiselessly now. He lost all feeling in his legs, and went limp in her arms, but she held him close and eased him to the ground, cradling him all the way. She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.” He smiled vaguely.

Numbness swept over him, and for the first time in active memory, there was no pain of any kind. His head was quiet. Things were peaceful for once. Finally. “It’s… alright,” he whispered. “This…” He coughed. “This is better.”

“I love you,” she sighed, voice thick with desperation and despair.

His smile widened. He was calm. Nothing hurt. He did not need the lyrium anymore. He did not need anything. “Thank you,” he breathed, and his voice was barely above a whisper. She was so beautiful.

When the red light of his pupils went out, leaving them black and cold and distant, the Inquisitor did not move. She did not let go of him. The tears fell, but they were silent. She could not speak, nor could she hear. It was as though she was underwater. Everything felt very far away.

Cassandra’s strong arms hooked around hers to pull her to her feet. Dazed, she looked down. Cullen’s blood was everywhere. Her hands were glistening in it, and her armor was dripping. She felt nothing at the sight of it all. She simply stared at her palms, fingers splayed, as though it were a curious exhibit seen without context.

“We need to get out of here,” Cole said. “This place is too sad. Too much is here, and she is open now, wide open like an empty room – a state no good for mages in a place like this.”

Varric spoke. “We can’t just leave… him,” he said very quietly. The air seemed abuzz with grief.

“Take her,” said the warrior to the dwarf. “I will get… Cullen.” Varric took the Inquisitor by the elbow. She was still staring aimlessly, her expression empty. Cassandra watched as he led her towards the prison’s entrance, and breathed some relief at the thought that they had at least eliminated all of the lingering Templars in the area. They would not need to fight their way out of here. Thank the Maker. There was room to breathe now, and time to mourn.

As she stood over her old friend’s body, her heart knotted tightly in her chest, and she had to shut her eyes tightly for a minute to stop herself from breaking down. It would not be like her to forget herself so publicly, but this – well. The situation was bizarre, even for them.

They had thought the worst was over when they had defeated Corypheus – had not taken the backlash from the lingering Venatori and red Templars as seriously as they should have. It was their mistake that got Cullen captured. They let their guard down. She watched her two friends open their hearts and forget their place, lovesick children to the last, and she watched that destroy them. They were unprepared for that massive raid on Skyhold. Cullen should not have been on the frontlines, but he had feared so much for the Inquisitor’s safety since she’d become pregnant, he had insisted upon fighting alongside her from then on. Now this? Her deeply treasured friend, slain at the hands of his love after over a year of torture, will forever be a stranger to his only child. It was unjust by the standards Cassandra had held for the world two years ago. But now?

She opened her eyes again, her jaw set and her gaze determined. Cullen’s eyes were black and staring. She shuddered, removed a glove, and pulled his eyelids shut. She felt that his face was wet with tears. “Maker, go with you, my friend.”

“Are… you… alright?” Cassandra looked around at Cole, surprised by this question.

“Don’t you already know?” she snapped.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “But you would prefer it if I asked.”

She smiled sadly in spite of herself. “Thank you,” she sighed. “And no. I am not alright.”

Shaking her head, Cassandra took back her sword from the floor beside her friend’s corpse, and sheathed it again, dreading the ritual of cleaning it when they returned to Skyhold.

Cole took a step forward. “Do you need help?”

“I’m stronger than I look, Cole,” she sneered.

“I know.” She understood. He was only trying to be kind – to help. He was always trying to help.

“Thank you,” she said graciously. “I’ve got it.”

At this, she drew in a deep breath, hardened her resolve, and knelt to scoop the body into her arms, cradling his much larger figure in front of her. It was some effort, but no more so than lifting her belongings, tower shield, and broadsword all at once. Cullen’s arm hung limply as she walked, his head lolling back onto her shoulder.

It was all she could do to keep from crumbling emotionally as she made her way outside. Cole followed her, his pale shadowed face still stricken with pain – his own as well as all of theirs. Watching Cassandra slowly walk ahead of him, he shivered, and whispered, “She really is stronger than she looks.”

He glimpsed the others beyond her, feeling their despair coursing through him, and thought: _They all are_.


End file.
